


Kneel and Obey

by Askellie (NadaNine)



Series: Bread and Circuses [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Ecto-Tentacles, Exhibitionism, Eye Trauma, Fontcest, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Magical body parts (ecto-cock), Sans vaguely consented to most of this, Sibling Incest, Skull Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 23:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6880543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaNine/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This is the whole reason they came up with the idea, after all. A way to keep people appeased without having to resort to martial law to keep violence off the streets. Apparently suffering is much more enjoyable when it's not happening to <b>you</b></i>.</p><p>It's that time of year again where Sans sets aside his dignity for the greater good. Continuation of oneType's 'Hold and Release'-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [hold and release](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101890) by [0neType](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType). 



> All the credit for this lovely idea goes to the amazing oneType, and their fic [Hold and Release](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6101890). I highly recommend reading that one first, because it is amazing, and because it helps set up the context for this continuation.

Papyrus's letterbox is overflowing. Sans has stopped to stare, perplexed, at the way paper has been crammed into every possible inch of it, some of them crumpled in the desperation to fit and more spilling out onto the snow beneath it. It looks like his own now, except where Sans's is full of yellowing leaflets of royal propaganda and dozens upon dozens of reminders about his tab at Grillby's, everything in his brother's mailbox looks fresh. He's not always the most observant of monsters, but he's pretty sure none of that was there yesterday.

Brow furrowed in confusion, he stomps the rest of the way up to the front door, shedding the layer of fresh snow that had caught him on his way back from his station. The door's locked, but the light is already on inside. When he finally convinces the stubborn key to turn he's greeted to the uncharacteristic sight of Papyrus sitting hunched on the sofa, pouring over the coffee table. There's even _more_ letters spread out in front of him, half in a disorganised pile and the rest in neat stacks as Papyrus sorts through them.

“What the hell is all this?” he asks, bewildered.

“Don't you dare get dirt on the carpet,” Papyrus snaps distractedly, picking up another letter. “I just cleaned.”

Sans rolls his eyes emphatically - Papyrus doesn't deign to notice - and grudgingly kicks off his shoes by the door and steps into his slippers instead. He wanders closer, watching the way his brother squints with difficulty at the paper in front of him. He's even wearing the battered set of spectacles he has sworn Sans to secrecy about, the ones that correct his poor near-sight, so Sans figures it must be important. He waits.

Papyrus eventually flicks a glance at him, and the way his expression twists might, in some lesser monster, convey a grimace. “These are...suggestions. For next week.”

It takes a few moments for that to sink in, and then Sans wishes not for the first time that he had his brother's poise. He tries to keep the appalled expression off his face but he's sure it's pretty fucking obvious since Papyrus is very studiously not looking at him.

“Why...” he croaks, and has to find his voice and try again. “Why the _hell_ are you _reading_ them!?”

He wants to sound indignant but the note of betrayal slips out when his voice nearly breaks on the last word. Papyrus is generous enough not to call his brother out for the weakness, but Sans still kind of wants to punch him.

After all, he's been doing his very, very best not to think about it, because he's painfully aware that everybody else in the town _is_. He can't go into Grillby's right now without getting stares and snickers, though at least now they know better than to actually try anything. The last time someone was drunk enough to solicit him at the bar, Grillby spiked their next drink with some sort of acid that nearly burned out their tongue. Another time, he'd barely stumbled out the door at closing time when some reckless Hotland visitor, too new to know better, had grabbed his shoulder and tried to pull him into the thicket behind the building. Greater Dog had stepped in that time, brutally crushing every bone in the perpetrator's offending arm before tying the remains of the mutilated limb into a knot. Papyrus had been so exceptionally pleased when he'd heard about it later, he'd actually pet Greater Dog once in acknowledgement of his loyalty. Thankfully the town talked more about that than what the guy had been thinking when he'd tried dragging Sans off. 

In a way, Sans is more protected than he's ever been. It's not the same kind of polarising celebrity status that Mettaton wields, but in selective circles he has some very devoted monsters willing to look out for his interests. He's their sacrificial lamb, after all, and they're all so very eager to make sure he's there for the big event. 

Sans hates it, but he can't deny its effectiveness. At least nearly everyone understands the unspoken rule that, outside of the gathering itself, no one is allowed to acknowledge exactly what it is Sans does there, _especially_ not to Sans himself.

And yet here is his brother, blatantly violating that rule with a table full of evidence that everyone _is_ thinking about it and everyone _is_ talking about it and, worst of all, his brother is _listening_.

Sans kind of wants to throw up.

“Believe me, I would much prefer not to read this _garbage_ ,” Papyrus retorts, the paper in his hand scrunching in his grip. “But I needed some input. Our next gathering will require a new approach.”

Sometimes it takes conscious effort to remember that the rules are different behind closed doors. Sans has to bite down on the urge to lash out at his brother again, insulting and belligerent, the way he would if there were an audience. He holds still, bones taut with tension until the worst of the impulse passes, forcibly reminding himself that his brother really does have his best interests at heart and Papyrus is very obviously displeased with his current chore and not just because the strain of reading will be giving him a migraine...

The pang of familiar guilt effectively snuffs his anger. Quietly, he moves to join his brother on the couch, sitting just close enough to be noticeable but not enough to be smothering. He stares determinedly at his knees so he's not tempted to look at the letters.

“There's been talk,” Papyrus says eventually. There's a dark, grim set to his mouth. “Apparently word is I'm going soft.”

Sans winces. That petting incident really had been the talk of the town. 

“Our last execution was more than three months ago,” Papyrus adds. Despite everything there's a hint of pride in his voice because Undyne's policy had been to hold one every other week and at the time there'd been no shortage of 'volunteers' guilty of pillaging, murder, or the very dire crime of insulting the Royal Scientist within Undyne's surprisingly impressive hearing. Since Papyrus took over, things have been...not calm, exactly, but manageable. Crimes have been petty rather than aggravated. Adherence to the authority of the guard is at an all time high.

“That just means you're good at your job, Boss,” Sans argues vehemently. He wonders if Grillby will tell him who's been talking. He wonders if he can ensure Papyrus is distracted elsewhere while Sans has his own little 'talk' with them. 

“I know,” Papyrus growls, visibly frustrated. “But it's too different. These _cretins_ need a reminder, so either I pick someone from the prison to make an example of, or...”

Sans gets it. This is the whole reason they came up with the idea, after all. A way to keep people appeased without having to resort to martial law to keep violence off the streets. Apparently suffering is much more enjoyable when it's not happening to _you_.

Sans digs his phalanges into the softer cartilage behind his kneecap. “You could...do the thing with the whip again. Or remember what we talked about with the knives?”

“No,” Papyrus says immediately. “I'm not risking your HP.”

As much as he could argue that Papyrus wouldn't be, that his control is absolute and Sans would be perfectly safe...well, he doesn't want the whip again _that_ much.

“Then...” Oh god, he's blushing now. “You could...you could actually fuck me-”

“ _No_.” Papyrus's voice is tight and uncompromising in the way that makes Sans shiver a little.

As much as Sans has assured his brother that he's fine, that he can take whatever Papyrus throws at him because his trust in his brother is unconditional, they'd found out last time exactly how fragile that pretence really is. Sans hadn't even seen it coming. One moment he was feeling good, basking in his brother's sharp smirk, eagerly dropping to his knees...then in the next moment he found himself eye-level with his brother's cock and very suddenly his mind had blanked out and he was suddenly back on that stage with the murmuring anticipation of the crowd in his ears, overwhelming and paralysing. 

Papyrus said he'd taken nearly fifteen minutes to snap out of it, and the way he'd crushed Sans to his body afterwards in a very uncharacteristic show of sentiment spoke volumes about how much it had rattled him. It had taken half the night before they managed to calm each other down, and by that time the mood was well and truly ruined.

So the new rule is that anything they might want to do in their own bedroom is strictly off-limits for the public. Sans has tried to argue – seriously! He's fine! – but Papyrus has been strict and frustratingly careful and whenever Sans tries to bring up his very sensible and convincing arguments about why this is all unnecessary, Papyrus gives him that look that makes him forget how to speak and so his complaints go unheard.

Unfortunately, that means that any suggestion he makes to his brother now he has to be willing to give up indefinitely, and there's a hell of a lot Sans wouldn't want to go without. One of the reasons Papyrus's 'act' for the crowd works so effectively is because the whole thing gets Sans embarrassingly aroused, embarrassingly quickly, the jeering of their voyeurs be damned. Actually, that part isn't exactly a turn-off either, which is something he won't ever admit to his brother even though he suspects Papyrus already knows.

Sans looks at the pile of letters and, with morbid curiosity and dread, picks one up and tentatively unfolds it. The handwriting is nearly incoherent, and it takes him a minute to figure out the words. He wishes he hadn't.

_lET evEryoNe cOMe in a BuCket anD mAke Him dRInk iT_

He lets the note drop as if scalded. Papyrus grabs it from the air, gives it a disgusted look, and puts it into one of his piles. “Leave it. You don't want to read them.”

Sans most definitely does not. The feeling of wanting to be ill has come back more ferociously. “Is any of this actually useful?”

“Some,” Papyrus admits grudgingly. “They're very...different.”

Different from the kinds of things he and his brother would actually _want_ to do, Sans assumes. Different in a way that would convince people his brother wasn't going soft. Different in horrible, extremely uncomfortable ways that Sans was probably going to have very personal experience with next week.

“I'm, um...” Sans clumsily staggers to his feet. “I'm gonna take a nap.”

He's pretty sure he's still got a bottle from Grillby's hidden in his sock drawer. He suddenly feels the urge to drink himself to incoherence in record time.

“I'll get you for dinner,” Papyrus says, shooting him a look that lasts only a fraction of a second before turning resolutely back to the letters. 

Sans has never mounted the stairs so quickly, trying to put the image out of his mind of his brother pouring over those horrible suggestions, reading, imagining, _considering_. And the knowledge that, whatever Papyrus asked him to do, Sans would undoubtedly do it. 

_lET evEryoNe cOMe in a BuCket anD mAke Him dRInk iT_

Alcoholic incoherence couldn't take him nearly fast enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've marked this fic as 'dubious consent' just in case because the line here is really muddy. On one hand, Sans has basically given Papyrus carte blanche when it comes to their performances. On the other hand, some of the things they do definitely fall outside Sans's comfort zone (which is sort of the point) and Papyrus takes things further than you should ever go without explicit permission from your sub, particularly if you actually care about them.
> 
> Basically, it is a fucked up situation and skelebros have issues. This has been your public service announcement for the day. Also, most of the warnings on this fic apply in this chapter, so please take a moment to make sure you know what you're in for. <3

For the rest of the week, Papyrus's mailbox is fastidiously emptied out whenever Sans comes home. There's no trace of any more letters, on the coffee table or otherwise, for which Sans is immensely thankful. Papyrus hadn't said anything about him staggering down for dinner completely plastered after that last conversation either, not even when Sans had passed out face-down in his pasta, but the absence of further evidence of the upcoming event sort of speaks for itself. 

Shit. He needs to do a better job of convincing his brother he's really okay about all this.

But in the meantime, he goes back to not thinking about it as much as possible. His brother is more distant than usual, which is typical. Sans had complained about it once, and Papyrus had smirkingly taunted him that it made things easier; a week without touch and Sans would already be achingly sensitive and desperate by the time Papyrus dragged him up onto that stage, ready to come apart without very little provocation. Sans had to grudgingly concede he had a point, even if his nights were a hell of a lot lonelier. 

(Papyrus had also admitted in a more vulnerable moment that it was something he needed for himself too. The forced absence helped remind him of what exactly he had to lose. Sans flattered himself to think he might not only have meant the loss of the people's regard or his position as Captain.)

The night beforehand, however, always brings a very stark change of pace. Sans barely has time to close the front door behind him when his brother's hand is on his shoulder, firmly pushing him towards the kitchen. 

“Dinner's ready.”

It's early, and the food is more burned than usual – Papyrus must have cooked it with extra intensity. Sans knows better than to say anything, and eats without complaint as Papyrus stares him down with a darkly forbidding expression. His brother doesn't join him for the meal. He might have eaten beforehand, but Sans doubts it. He knows this mood well. Papyrus is radiating tightly suppressed energy, and probably hasn't even thought about food all day. 

The moment Sans puts down his fork, Papyrus has snatched away the plate to clean it. Sans barely has a moment to collect himself before he's being hustled up the stairs.

“Boss,” he complains, but it's half-hearted. He hesitates at the top of the stair and that allows Papyrus to shoulder open his own door and shove Sans inside. 

He points imperiously to his own grand bed. “Undress first. I've told you how unsanitary it is to wear your clothes to bed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sans grouses, shrugging out of his jacket. Papyrus grabs it before Sans can throw it on the floor, moving to hang it up in his closet with surprising care. Sans makes a point to dump the rest of his clothing in a messy pile while his brother's back is turned. A petty but amusing victory.

The first time this happened, he thought his brother was just getting into character – ordering Sans around as if he were a slave, his expression closed off, any touch between them lasting only as long as necessary, his manner curt and almost detached. Only when he learned his brother's quirks better did he realise that it was actually his brother's own strange form of care, forcing Sans to eat and to get what little sleep he can while Papyrus held what was essentially an all-night vigil to watch over him. To keep him safe now, while he still can.

It's not the traditional sort of care, not soft and tender the way Papyrus will sometimes be in the aftermath, but it's comforting all the same.

There's a moment as he's climbing onto the mattress when he's very aware of his nakedness. It's not exactly shameful. For a lot of monsters, clothing is more of an affectation than a necessity, and for skeletons in particular there's not a whole lot that needs covering. Rather, being naked on Papyrus's bed carries certain connotations, and for a moment Sans considers and he turns a look on his brother that carries its own kind of weight and the question they're still not very good at articulating at each other...

Papyrus is staring grumpily down at the clothes on the floor, and when his eye-lights flick towards Sans there's a disappointing lack of anything lascivious in his expression. Much like with food, it's probably something he's not even thinking about right now.

“Go to sleep,” Papyrus orders bluntly, picking up the clothes to dispose of them.

Sans huffs, half-amused and half-frustrated, but obliges. Papyrus's bed always feels too large and empty when he's the only one in it, but the blanket is smooth on his bare bones and the outline of his brother's formidable visage against the door is familiar and reassuring. Sans lets his eye-sockets drift shut, pressing his face into Papyrus's clean sheets. The bed smells of laundry freshener and beneath that, sunk into the mattress, bones and leather and Italian spices. It's not so difficult to let himself drift, his mind unexpectedly peaceful and blank, and the next thing he feels is the weight of his brother's hand on his shoulder, jostling him from sleep.

“Get dressed,” Papyrus orders, his voice quiet but level. The red pricks of light in his sockets are bright despite the lack of sleep.

Sans isn't nearly so alert – never this early in the morning – but all he has to do is follow directions. Papyrus has even picked out his clothes, and all Sans has to do is fumble his way into them and make sure he gets his limbs in all the right holes. Pulling his shirt down over his ribs, he reaches absently for the collar he'd left on the nightstand so that its spikes wouldn't puncture his brother's bedding. 

Papyrus grabs his wrist. “No.”

It takes Sans a moment, blinking away his drowsiness, before he realises what his brother means, and why. Dismay snaps him to full awareness. “Oh come on, Boss.”

Papyrus had given him the collar long before any of this had started. These days Sans snaps it on without even thinking, and it's definitely not something he could bear to go without for any length of time, but...

Today, of all days, he needs it. When he wears it, he's no longer just himself, he's _his brother's_ , and sometimes it feels like that's one of the only things holding him together. He definitely doesn't want to stand on that stage without it, particularly since sometimes it's the only thing he'll be left wearing by the end of it.

“Please,” he begs when Papyrus's expression doesn't change. “Pap...”

It's dirty to use that nickname when Papyrus has his game face on. It's like sliding a bone construct right into the sole chink in his armour, but Sans isn't above foul play as long as it works. He watches Papyrus hesitate, and then after a poignant pause he takes the collar himself and loops it around Sans's neck. Sans lets out a grateful sigh, tension unspooling from his spine. 

Papyrus's hands linger for just a moment, one claw hooked into the ring beneath Sans's chin, applying familiar pressure before abruptly letting go. “Give me your hands.”

Sans offers them freely, wrists already crossed to make it easy for Papyrus to bind them together. Beneath his breastbone, familiar anxiety is threatening to bubble up and consume him, but he manages to hold it off because for the moment it's just himself and his brother and the abrasive pinch of the cord on his bones. There's a tantalising flutter much _lower_ than his rib cage that he tries not to get distracted by.

He's almost forgotten his jacket, but Papyrus hasn't. He drapes it over Sans's shoulders, letting it rest there like a cape so it won't be entangled by his bound hands. Sans appreciates its protection, and this way it'll be easy to discard without getting torn up. The rest of his clothing isn't anything special, and the fact that his brother probably chose them to be readily disposable is a fact that sticks uncomfortably in the forefront of his thoughts. 

Papyrus brings out the leash, but rather than fixing it to the collar, he loops it through the cord on Sans's wrists and ties it off in an elegant knot. This is his compromise, Sans realises, and it's one he's more than happy to accede to. Papyrus gives the new hold a firm tug, both to test the security of the lead and to ask his silent question.

“Yeah,” Sans says, his voice lower and huskier than usual. “I'm ready.”

Papyrus's expression doesn't change from its stern impassivity, but Sans knows how to read the more subtle signs of approval in his body language. Sometimes those tiny cues are the only assurance he'll get, and for the next couple of hours it's all he'll have. The rules change as soon as they step outside, and Sans braces himself, watching the way Papyrus's gloved hands clinch the leather of the leash as he opens the door and forcefully pulls Sans over the threshold.

It's rudely bright outside, artificial light reflecting off the fresh layer of snow. Sans squints, face automatically scrunching up into a defensive scowl. He mindlessly tries to lift a hand to shield his eye-sockets and earns a reprimanding yank from Papyrus in response. His brother wastes no time, setting off with all the lanky grace of a predator, his long strides forcing Sans to stumble to keep up.

Already things feel like they're moving too fast, or maybe it's just that his thoughts have slowed down to a numb crawl. The cord bites into his bones, his carpals grinding together, and he's grateful for the pain because it gives him something to concentrate on instead of thinking about where they're going and what they'll be doing. Instinctively, his legs have gone stiff with reluctance, threatening to trip him as Papyrus drags him along in his wake, but that's fine; he's not meant to look eager for this. The sick uncertainty clouding his expression needs no effort to feign, and is perfectly in character.

The gathering is always deep in the forest, well apart from the town in a pretence of propriety. The actual location moves each time – Sans doesn't know exactly how it works, but unwillingly he's picked up a sense of the proceedings. Attendance is by invitation only and requires endorsement from a member of the guard. Somehow it works better at keeping the people in line than any amount of rule-mongering or threatening. 

Sans knows they're getting close when he catches sight of Dogamy on the edge of his peripheral vision. Though it's not exactly a formalised event, members of the guard often show up to keep an eye on the perimeter and ward off any uninvited guests. Sans isn't sure if they do it as a favour to his brother, or if they just want to head off any unwanted trouble so they're free to watch when the performance starts. 

(Sans wonders if Dogamy's wife knows that he's here, and then realises he shouldn't have; an amused bark from somewhere beyond the dog's position tells him Dogaressa is here too, and is eager for things to get started.)

Ahead of them is the stage, and beyond that, the gathered crowd of monsters who let up a short whoop of glee when the two of them come into view. Sans somehow manages to choke on his own breath, staring down at his wrists so he doesn't have to look up. There's a familiar burn starting on his cheekbones, and a small tremble working its way down his spine. All the care and preparation in the world can't make him feel ready for this.

Papyrus, however, slows to a confident saunter. He knows that, just like himself, there's some part of Papyrus that enjoys this. A part that shines especially bright under all the attention. A part that revels in the awe of the crowd. A part that viciously enjoys proving to everyone assembled how thoroughly he owns Sans, that his brother will endure this over and over...

And enjoy it, like a dirty little whore. The flutter from earlier comes back more intensely. Sans has to focus hard on not tripping over his own feet as he mounts the stairs to the stage at his brother's side.

He always tries to avoid looking at the crowd. He doesn't want to risk having any faces burned into his memory, to arise at inopportune moments, so instead he looks elsewhere; at his feet, at the trees. A small glint of light catches his eye, and he squints at the odd mechanical protuberance poorly hidden high up in a cluster of foliage beyond the stage. 

_Oh god_ , he thinks. It's one of Alphys's cameras. He wants to bring it to his brother's attention – how the hell had the guard missed that? – but his brother has already turned his attention to the crowd.

“Welcome,” Papyrus announces, and the corner of Sans's mind that never stops being snide and irreverent muses that Papyrus has been watching too many of Mettaton's performances. There's a flamboyant snap to his movements that definitely draws the eye even if Sans feels it's a little over the top. He averts his eyes so he won't be tempted to smirk, and finds himself faced with a new feature of the stage he hadn't seen before.

There's a steel hook hanging ominously down over the platform. It's anchored high overhead on a sturdy looking branch, dangling down on a rope. It's about level with Papyrus's skull, which means it's well over Sans's head. It reminds him of something wholly unsettling, and it takes him a minute to recognise what that is. It's a meat hook, the kind used in human abattoirs for hanging heavy carcasses. 

Sans never knows what his brother has planned for their performance. In part, it's because they need his reactions to be real and raw in order to convince the crowd that he isn't entirely here of his own volition. He has to be Papyrus's favourite victim, not his partner in crime, and so his reluctance and his uncertainty have to be sincere.

The other reason is that, if he knew what was coming, he isn't entirely sure he would be able to agree. Something in him cringes wretchedly at the sight of the hook and its implications. Instinctively, he takes a step back only to have clawed hands firmly grip his upper arms. Papyrus leans over him, a heavy weight at his back.

“Now brother,” he practically purrs, his voice as smooth as silk. “No need to be shy. We've all been looking forward to this.”

There's another enthusiastic round of cheers that Sans barely registers because it's hard to concentrate on anything that isn't his brother's voice when he's using _that_ tone. It's the one that invites Sans to struggle, for what little use it'll be, and so Sans digs his heels in and tries to squirm out of Papyrus's grip. It doesn't help, of course, but the crowd eats it up as Papyrus pushes him forwards, towards the hook. With an elegant twist of his wrist, Papyrus coils up the leash around his fist and captures Sans's wrists, jerking them upwards. Sans yelps, his feet leaving the ground for a moment as Papyrus lifts him with easy strength and deftly snares his smaller brother's bound wrists over the sharp, upward sweep of the hook before releasing him. 

Sans drops back down as gravity pulls him towards the lowest point of the bend in the metal. After a brief scramble he realises he can still just barely touch the ground as long as he arches on the balls of his feet. He's left partly suspended, hands pulled high over his head, spine stretched uncomfortably. He gives his new anchor an experimental pull, letting it take the full brunt of his weight, but there's no give in either the rope or the branch. The tip of the hook is a few inches above the very limit of his reach, promising very little chance he'll be able to get back off the hook on his own. Papyrus must have calculated the height of it with great care.

Sans's jacket has fallen from his shoulders when his arms were lifted. Now that Papyrus is assured that Sans is properly positioned, he kicks the garment out of the way, leaving Sans in only a worn t-shirt and his shorts. He tenses, expecting to have those summarily ripped from his body, maybe sliced through with a sharp bone, or torn to pieces with his brothers claws, but instead he hears the clipped sound of his brother's boots on the platform as Papyrus takes a few steps backwards, perhaps admiring his handiwork. 

It's certainly very exposing, even without being naked. Sans can't move his hands to cover himself, and the orientation and height of the hook makes it difficult to turn in place. He's forced to face the crowd with nothing to hide behind, and he silently curses himself for not ever mentioning to his brother how much he appreciated the blindfold last time. He can only try to hide his face in the crook of his shoulder and shut out the jeers of the audience, as they call out his name or suggestions to his brother. Some of them leave him cold in a way that has nothing to do with the bite of frost in the air. 

He isn't sure what to expect, but when the crowd reacts with a babble of excited sound that falls very abruptly into silence he's startled enough to look up. There's a lot of wide eyes and gaping mouths and Sans almost wishes he could twist to see what his brother is doing even though the breadth of possibilities fills him with dread. As it turns out, he doesn't exactly have a say in the matter, nor does he need to turn around. Something slithers against his foot, drawing his gaze back down to the floor of the stage.

For a moment, he can't figure out what he's looking at. It's long and it's red and it's giving off a soft, unnerving glow of magic as the tip of it curls over the top of his shoe. His reaction is instinctive and immediate; bewildered revulsion. He tries to kick it off. 

“What the fuck!?” he yelps, his body curling as far away from it as possible, but while the rope stops his awkward flailing from overbalancing him, it also prevents him from actually going anywhere. The slimy appendage tightens its hold, refusing to be dislodged, and Sans finally recognises it as his brother's magic in the same moment the crowd starts laughing uproariously at his reaction.

He contorts his neck and manages to catch a glimpse of Papyrus standing tall and imposing, arms crossed and his face composed in concentration. The red, seemingly boneless magical construct has uncoiled from somewhere behind him, up near his shoulder-blade, and it's not like anything Sans has ever seen before. It's certainly not the kind of magic that comes naturally to them, and his brain stalls on the thought that Papyrus must have practised especially for this. There's a second limb, mostly transparent for now but starting to bleed into existence on his brother's other side. The first one is starting to spiral its way up Sans's tibia, and he suddenly has an uncomfortable sense of where this might be going. 

“Shit!” he blurts before he can think to censor his reaction. “Oh fucking _fuck_ , no, get off-!”

Mindless disgust and something uncomfortably close to panic take hold of him before he can remember that he isn't supposed to fight his brother's will, _not ever_ , but the thing that's touching him now isn't anything like his brother's hands and it's _gross_. It's spongy and slimy, secreting some kind of residue that's slicking up his shin bone, and the body of it thrums with a pervasive heat and an uncomfortable tingle of magic that's completely foreign to anything he's familiar with and he wants it _off_.

He tries to shake it off again, but bound in place he has no means to get any force behind his movements, and now that it's coiled around him a couple of times he's starting to realise that there's some sort of weight to the magic because it's heavy, pulling his leg back down to the stage. By the time he thinks to give up and try to kick at it with his other leg, hoping the bonds on his wrists will be strong enough to support his weight, he's waited too long. The second construct has had time to form, and without warning his other ankle is captured and yanked out from under him. The two appendages pull his legs apart, and suddenly the cord on his wrists is the only thing holding him upright as his limbs are forced to spread too wide for his feet to touch the platform. 

“Ah-ahhh!” He's lost all leverage, and his bones are being pulled painfully taut as he writhes mindlessly. It _hurts_ , and not in ways he's used to, that he's learned how to deal with, and-!

“Stop struggling.” Papyrus's voice drags his focus back, and as much as his body screams its desire to disobey, Sans squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to go slack. The appendages likewise ease the tightness of their grip, and some of the tension lifts from his joints. It's not exactly comfortable, being contorted like this, but he can manage to breathe again even if he's panting worse than one of the dogs after a training exercise.

“Better,” Papyrus says. Clawed fingers drape across the crest of Sans's skull, more condescending than comforting.

He responds in kind, working up a half-hearted glare. “F-Fuck you.”

Papyrus laughs, and their audience laughs with him. It's hard, because on one hand, this is what he wants; his brother with the approval of the people behind him. On the other hand, his cheekbones are burning with humiliation and the appendages have climbed up past his knees and one of them is tugging at the hem of his shorts. 

“Now brother, I've warned you about your appalling manners,” Papyrus says, making a gesture with his hand, and suddenly one of his phantom limbs has slithered its way up behind him and into the back of his shirt. Sans lets out a flustered squeak of sound as it curls around his spine, just above his pelvis. The other appendage rises up and, with surprising dexterity, pulls aside the cloth so the audience can watch the way slippery coils begin to flex and clinch around each vertebrae in turn in an appallingly sensuous motion. 

Any further retort is immediately blown from Sans's mind. An attempt at protest turns into a garbled mess of sound, and then into a shaky moan. The slippery limb squeezes its way up to where his bottom most rib joins his spine and then, in one easy, lubricated motion, strokes all the way back down and begins again. The noise that tears from him is equal parts startled and gratified.

“That's a much better sound for you to make,” Papyrus notes approvingly. The applause from the crowd seems to agree. 

The first few caresses are slow, almost gentle by Papyrus's standard. The limb is much softer than his brother's claws, the pace more languid than Sans is used to, and he suspects Papyrus is offering as much of a kindness as he can in letting Sans familiarise himself with the alien feel of it touching him. The moment he can focus enough again to think to look at his brother's face, Papyrus's smug expression turns harder, and the tempo of strokes begins to pick up, each one faster, rougher, more careless. Sans feels his eyes rolling, a humiliating litany of desperate sounds pouring out between each heave of his breath.

He almost doesn't notice that his shorts are being inched down his hip-bones in slow, deliberately teasing increments. The anticipation of the audience is thick in the air, and a cheer of approval goes up as a burst of magical heat scorches Sans's shirt enough that it can be torn off his shoulders, finally providing an unobstructed view of the way he writhes and arches into each clench around his spine.

His magic wants to coalesce. He can feel it, heavy and pulsing, flaring in the joints that hold his body together, pooling uncomfortably down at his pelvis. His cock wants to come out, hard and already seeping with the knowledge that its presence will please his brother, but a thread of uncertainty is holding him back. He whines, hips bucking against empty air. The appendages seem to be sticking to the outer ridges of his bones, avoiding the more obvious erogenous areas. 

“Don't be difficult, brother.” Papyrus is closer to him now, a dark shadow on the edge of Sans's vision. “If you want something, ask nicely.”

Sans doesn't think he could form a coherent word if his life depended on it. He tries, garbling out something that could be _Boss_ or _please_ or even _Papyrus_ , but thankfully doesn't quite sound like any of them. Papyrus rumbles in amusement, the sound low and deep, thrumming in his rib cage close enough for Sans to feel it. 

“What was that?” he asks, and for the first time he reaches out to touch Sans with his own hands. Clawed phalanges rake down the mound of Sans's pubis with an awful grind of bone. “I didn't quite hear you.”

Sans shrieks, body convulsing in pain and white hot pleasure and it happens so quickly he isn't at all ready for it. His body arches and suddenly his cock has manifested and he's coming without it even being touched. For that one, beautiful moment it's blinding and blissful and he feels dizzy with relief as the tension drains from his bones, leaving him limp and pliant.

Horrible realisation hits him a moment later. _Oh shit_. He came too soon.

Papyrus wasn't ready for it either. His magical appendages have gone still, mirroring his faltering pause as he tries to figure out how to proceed now. Sans curses himself profusely because he's gone and fucked up his brother's careful plan, and what if the crowd takes Sans's lapse of control as a sign of his brother's weakness, what if they're not satisfied, what if what if-

“Sans.”

Sans flinches, but his brother's voice is perfectly even and controlled. Even so, there's an undertone of malice that forces him to seek out his brother's face despite his exhaustion. Papyrus has redonned his smirk, his eyes narrowed in familiar disapproval. 

“I believe I told you to ask for what you wanted. I don't recall you asking to come.”

Sans shudders, his nervousness not feigned at all even though a part of him nearly collapses on itself with relief knowing that his brother has a new plan already, that he'll take care of this despite Sans's inadequacy.

“B-boss, please,” he gasps, though his voice is only a hoarse whisper. His words are clumsy, almost slurring. “I tried, I did-!”

“Not good enough!”

There's a surge of magical energy below him. Sans risks a look down. There's...there's definitely more than two appendages there now, already beginning their slow climb up his femurs, poised between his legs. 

There's a small part of him that still sometimes cares about pride and dignity. Normally he makes a point to keep it suppressed in the back of his mind for this event, but right now it's absolutely nowhere to be found as panic takes hold and fills him with a burst of energy to struggle wildly against his restraints.

“N-no! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't-HNNnnnngh...”

A limb snakes its way through his pelvic inlet, driving any possible pleas from his mind. The tip of the appendage is narrow enough to slide in easily, but it makes a point of nosing around in the hollows of his illium. Sans chokes, his body locking up at the foreign intrusion.

“I wasn't nearly finished with you,” Papyrus says, his voice lower, not pitched for the hearing of the audience, and there's a real admonishment there that Sans knows he deserves. 

“Boss!” He is deeply and sincerely sorry, and he wants his brother to know that, but even so he knows no amount of apologising or begging is going to make this any easier. Papyrus can't afford to go easy on him.

Sans has poor stamina, which is to be expected for a monster with such pitiful HP. Even braced with good food and plentiful sleep, a simple act of exertion easily wears him out. His brother has learned to make accommodations for it. If he needs Sans to last, he goes slow and easy so as not to put too much of a strain on Sans's weak body.

But they don't have the luxury for that now. 

Sans lets loose a splutter of sound as another limb climbs up through his pelvis, joining the first. These ones are a little thinner than the ones holding his legs, the tips tapered to rounded points before flaring out to a fleshy thickness as broad as his femur. By the time a third pushes in, the gap in his bones is beginning to feel tight around their writhing shapes. A fourth has him keening in near panic, legs trying to curl up protectively against any further intrusion. Papyrus makes a sharp motion with his hand, and his ankles are vehemently stretched apart even wider, leaving him unbearably open.

“Stop! Boss, stop! I can't-!” He isn't in pain – Papyrus isn't so careless – but the warm, slippery pressure on the inside of his pelvis feels entirely unnatural. It's not at all like when his brother has penetrated him in the past; he's used his own magic to pad that gap to a comfortable degree. The limbs are squirming carelessly, sliding against each other, pushing in all directions, and he feels weird and full and strangely bloated with their undulating forms filling the space where his belly would be.

It probably looks quite disturbing from the perspective of the fleshier monsters in the audience. Long tubular shapes flailing around like living intestines, their slippery fluid dripping down over his bones like blood. Distantly, Sans thinks his brother must have planned it to look that way; morbid and unsettling and unforgettable. A disturbing turn from humiliation to horror.

Yet there's still a burning heat suffusing his bones that makes him gasp with need. He feels raw and sensitive where Papyrus clawed him, and two of the appendages have curled back over the top of his pubic arch and are lapping with an almost reverential devotion at the shallow scratches left behind. His hips twitch mindlessly from their attentions, and involuntarily he can feel his cock starting to form again. He wouldn't have thought himself capable of it so soon after the first time, but his brother's forceful ministrations have coaxed out a growing swell of interest that the limbs are quick to take advantage of. He feels one circle tightly around the base, preventing any possible retreat of that tentative arousal. The other moves to tease the slit at his tip in the way his brother has learned to drive him absolutely wild.

“Uhhhhnnn...b-boss...”

He sounds pitiful, though probably not as much as he looks, twitching and trembling helplessly. The world around him is starting to blur into a confusing smear of light and darkness, and the only colour that stays clear is red. The red of his brother's eye glowing brightly with magical exertion, and the red of his gloves as he reaches out and hooks a finger into Sans's collar. His neck is yanked forward at an awkward angle, twisting against the natural bend of his shoulders, and even though magical ligaments are a lot more flexible than physical ones, it's still uncomfortable. 

“I'll let you make it up to me, brother,” Papyrus says, his fingers caressing almost tenderly against the underside of Sans's jaw. “Open.”

There's a new appendage peeking up over Papyrus's shoulder, dripping with fresh slime and intimidatingly thick. Sans stares at it, his mouth going dry.

But he opens it anyway, because he can't do anything else. 

The appendage approaches him more slowly than he anticipates, and he has far too long to contemplate how shameless he must look with his jaw gaping wide, tongue lolling out on instinct before it's forced to stretch even further to accommodate the eager extension of his brother's magic. It tangles briefly with its tongue, giving him enough time to become aware of the fact that it tastes like Papyrus, before it's pushing further inside-

- _wait_ -

-driving against the back of his throat-

- _holy fuck_ -

-pushing hard against the barrier there that only exists when Sans wants it to, forcing it to give way-

- _shit shit shit_ -

-hitting the back of Sans's skull, taking a moment to reorient itself inside him-

- _fuckshitnoNONO_ -

-and with a squelching sound he hopes never to have to hear again, it pops back out his eye socket. The awed gasp of the crowd is the last thing he hears clearly before his mind is completely overwhelmed, turned to incoherent mush.

He can't think. He can't breathe. There's liquid running down his face and he doesn't know if it's the limb's slimy residue or his own tears or maybe some more vital fluid being forced out from the inside of his skull. The invading limb isn't sitting still either; it's curling around, leaving slimy trails across his forehead, lapping at the edges of his eye-socket, inching further into him through his mouth until his jaw aches and his tongue is forced flat and he can't make even a squeak of sound around it. 

Later, he'll recognise this as the point where his brother has literally fucked him senseless, because he is nothing but a vessel for pure sensation. He is the arch and stretch of a spine being gently sculpted by hungry caresses. He is the ache of a bony cavity filled to bursting with slick, sensuous motion. He is the dark space inside a skull now being filled with familiar magic, fierce and demanding and possessive and full of so much _want want want-_

He always gives in to what his brother asks.

Sans comes without even being able to fully feel his body, but the dizzying rush of pleasure still rises up to overtake him, white hot and blinding and painful in its intensity. He thinks he'd be screaming if he could find his voice at all, if he could remember how to get back into his body, but it doesn't really matter because he can feel Papyrus around him and in him and he can't bring himself to care who's watching or what he looks like because the pleasure is so good and so much, too much, and he feels himself coming apart at the seams.

He passes out, and it comes as a relief.

  


* * *

  


It feels like a long time passes, of which he is blissfully unaware.

He is so tired. He doesn't want to be concious. His body aches in strange places and his wrists feel raw and chafed, but somehow he feels comfortable and safe, curled up and lying on his side, no longer hanging from the hook. He's dimly aware of the loops of magical limbs that are still carefully wrapped around him, now cushioning and supportive rather than invasive and demanding. They're warm enough to chase away the cold, especially with his jacket thrown over the top of his body like a blanket. 

He can usually fall asleep anywhere, but he can't help but notice that it's still the hard, splintered wood of the stage underneath him and not the usual comfort of their living room couch.

Where is Papyrus?

Sans reluctantly drags his eyes back open, knowing his brother can't be far away if his magic is still active, and he isn't. Sans can see him standing just beyond the edge of the platform, his silhouette oddly haloed with a brightness that takes a moment to decipher. There's a familiar glow emanating from beyond his brother, and though Sans can't see its source, he knows all too well what it is.

“Just one performance,” Grillby cajoles, his voice crackling with all the eager hunger of a bonfire. “It would do wonders for the town's morale.”

The words don't make any sense to Sans's scrambled thoughts, but what little he can see of Papyrus's expression looks distinctly displeased.

“And for your business,” Papyrus scoffs. “I have told you before, the answer is no. I have no interest in patronising that disgusting greasepit you call a restaurant. I have far better things to do with my time.”

“Of course,” Grillby agrees smoothly. “It's far too menial a chore for the Captain of the Guard. But what about Sans?”

“What about him?” Papyrus's voice would put the fear of dusting into any lesser monster, but Grillby has never been particularly intimidated by either of the skeletons. 

“Wouldn't you be pleased to see him actually working for a change?” Grillby asks. “Of course, I would be happy to compensate you for his time. I think it could be quite lucrative for both of us.”

The coils of magic around Sans are starting to thrum agitatedly, and it feels less like he's cushioned in a circle of protective hounds and more like he's lying on a bed of angry snakes. The jostling makes him ache anew, and he can't help but plead for reprieve. “B-boss?”

It's not a loud call, but Papyrus's attention snaps to him instantly. Grillby looks unperturbed by the interruption, and he directs a smile at Sans that releases a puff of smoky air from the gap in his flames that functions like a mouth. 

“Think about it,” is all he says to Papyrus before striding off, either blissfully unaware or deliberately ignoring the glare being directed at his back. Papyrus lets it linger a moment longer before pointedly turning away with a huff. He vaults easily up onto the stage again, stalking over to Sans without a word.

“Wha'sat about?” Sans slurs before he can think better of it. He's still feeling hazy, not quite as sharp as he should be, but it seems aside from Grillby the rest of the crowd has already dispersed so at least there's no one else to see it.

“Nothing,” Papyrus grits out, scooping his brother up into his arms and finally letting the rest of his magic disperse.

It can't be nothing. 'Nothing' wouldn't put that kind of tension in his brother's shoulders, palpable enough that Sans can feel it in the stiffness of his hold, but when Papyrus looks down at him his eyes have finally started to soften and Sans doesn't want to ruin that. His brother's fierce energy is starting to dissipate. Sans clutches wordlessly at his brother's scarf.

“We're going home,” Papyrus declares with a decisive nod, not really for Sans's benefit since it's doubtful he'll be able to get his legs working again any time soon, but he nods gratefully and allows himself to nestle into the crook of his brother's neck. For once, Papyrus allows him to do so without complaint.


	3. Chapter 3

Time passes indistinctly. Sans knows he should try to wake up properly, with a lifetime of instincts screaming at him about how dangerous it is to let his guard down, but every few moments he's jostled with little reminders that he's still in his brother's arms, and therefore is as safe as he possibly can be. There's the soft creak of leather as Papyrus effortlessly adjusts Sans's slight weight in his hold, or the smoothly regular jolt of his stride. He has no incentive to do anything but drift pleasantly, feeling comfortably numb.

A subtle shift in the ambient temperature tells him they've finally arrived home. He must have phased out for a bit to have missed Papyrus's traditional struggle with their stubborn lock, though his brother is still muttering about it as he sets Sans down on the couch. There's a moment of pause where Sans can feel his brother examining him carefully.

“Sans?”

Papyrus's voice is quieter than usual. There's no edge of demand, and without that Sans can't find the motivation to open his eyes. He lies limp, just breathing softly, feeling the faint ache in his bones that promises to turn sharper the more he wakes up. That's definitely not a sensation he's looking forward to. 

Papyrus clucks disapprovingly, but doesn't persist. Sans hears him moving away, not far, but enough to feel bereft at his absence. Sans hazily considers opening his eyes to track his brother's movements, but the thought brings attention to the unpleasant feeling of something sludgy and foreign coagulating around the rim of his eye-socket. When he starts to follow the train of thought that threatens to remind him of how it came to be there, his mind desperately throws up a block that declares, “DANGER, DO NOT CROSS,” and he warily relents.

His brother returns, and there's a familiar comfort in the emphatic energy in his movements that immediately makes Sans relax. Papyrus is taking care of things. Sans doesn't need to move and—ohh. Something soft, damp and faintly heated presses up against his sticky eye-socket, and the feeling is incredibly pleasant. A quiet sigh escapes between his teeth as Papyrus begins gently but fastidiously scrubbing away at it, dislodging the thick crust in a way that feels immensely satisfying. 

Only when Papyrus is done does he dare to crack his eyes open, his vision presenting him with the blurry image of his brother rinsing off the washcloth in a nearby bucket before reaching back towards Sans's face. He pauses for a moment, seeing Sans awake, but his expression is of a fierce concentration that defies interruption.

“Hold still,” Papyrus orders him unnecessarily. Sans doesn't think he could move if he tried, and endures patiently as his brother tackles yet more of the solidifying substance that's crusted at the corners of his mouth and dripped down his chin. His jaw parts obliging as Papyrus hooks a claw in between his teeth. Apparently he's not content just to clean what's outwardly visible, and he wedges the cloth in to Sans's mouth, searching persistently for further residue.

Sans makes a muffled sound, not really a protest. He can still feel a faint tingling in his bones, the nerves hypersensitive, and the sensation of his brother's phalanges invading his mouth makes him unconsciously form a tongue that fights the intruders for space. He licks at his brother's gloves, tasting leather and a little of the tacky substance that he immediately recognises as his brother's magical residue. That particular combination has always appeared in a very specific context. He quivers a little, bones rattling as he chokes out a soft moan. 

“Stop that,” Papyrus grunts, distractedly trying to pin Sans's tongue down so it stops getting in his way, but Sans catches a glimpse of wicked amusement in his brother's expression. The cloth is shoved in a little more forcefully, clawed fingers curling in to stroke the roof of Sans's mouth as they thrust suggestively. Sans whines, meekly pliant, watching his brother through heavy-lidded eyes.

The fingers are removed only to be swiftly replaced with Papyrus's tongue. He takes hold of Sans's skull, expertly tilting it to the angle he needs to fit their mouths together, teeth clinking, so he can thoroughly plunder the space inside. Papyrus is demanding. Normally Sans doesn't mind, especially when he doesn't have to do any of the work, but Papyrus is pressing hard, forcing his jaw open wider, and suddenly he's struck by the memory of thick, pulsating magic slithering its way through his skull and--

He jerks, making a high pitched yelp that has Papyrus pulling back instantly. Sans inwardly curses himself for the look of concern on his brother's face.

“Sans?” Papyrus's hold shifts, worriedly seeking out any hint of injury. Sans determinedly nuzzles into his palm. 

“Sorry,” he rasps, his voice raw. “Jaw hurts.”

It's not a lie. There's a definite ache there, even when Papyrus isn't prying his teeth apart, that's probably going to make chewing hell for the next couple of days. Papyrus's expression relaxes, his hand stroking over the crest of Sans's skull.

“You did so well, brother,” he says, his voice tempered with that special warmth that's reserved solely for Sans and only for their bedroom. “I'm very proud of you.”

Sans almost squirms, flushing with the praise. Normally Papyrus wouldn't be so explicit with his approval, but he's started to learn how much those small concessions mean to Sans. How they make his smaller brother warm with pleasure, how it soothes away any tension, leaving him relaxed and eager.

“Cheater,” Sans mutters, going limp again out of reflex and feeling faintly sheepish about it.

Papyrus chuckles lowly. “Let me finish cleaning you up.”

Sans is still naked, and although he's not very sensitive to the temperature, there's a delightful rush where the heated cloth presses against his body and chases away the cold. Papyrus takes an unnecessary amount of care on the underside of his ribs, with smooth strokes that gently delve between the slats of bone. Papyrus keeps his face composed so Sans isn't entirely sure if the teasing is intentional or not, but he knows his brother well enough that he's sure Papyrus appreciates the way Sans is arching and spluttering under the treatment. 

He risks a glance down. There's a very telling crimson glow reflecting off the pale bones of his brother's pelvis, peeking out from beneath his belt. The flickering intensity of that light tells Sans his brother has been aroused for some time, perhaps even since their performance, and that the need of it is acute enough that Papyrus hasn't managed to banish it by willpower alone even though he seems intent on ignoring it in favour of his brother.

Sans feels a pang, He clumsily reaches a hand down towards his brother's belt. “Pap...”

Papyrus catches his wrist, his face going so disturbingly blank that for a moment Sans worries he's crossed a line. Then his brother releases his breath, and with it, the forbidding twist to his features. He gently thumbs the small grooves left on Sans's wrist where the ropes had chafed. “That's not necessary.”

“Come on, Boss,” Sans pleads, trying to reach again, but there's no dissuading Papyrus's gentle grip. “Wanna touch you.”

He's still exhausted, and he isn't even completely sure of what he can offer his brother, but he can't take his eyes off the tenting bulge at the front of his brother's pants. He'd feel completely shitty if, after all that, Papyrus had to take care of himself when Sans is right here and perfectly okay with being used for that purpose. He tries to reach covertly with his other arm only to have it captured as well. Papyrus snorts, easily securing both wrists with his larger hand. Sans flexes in his hold, feeling the faint burn where the rope left its marks, panting shallowly. He looks at his brother with wide eyes, trying to make his expression as invitingly vulnerable as possible.

He knows his brother's weaknesses also, and has no reservations about cheating either if he has to.

Papyrus growls, glaring at Sans with too-bright eyes, and the metallic snap of a belt buckle announces the incontrovertible shattering of his brother's resolve. Their couch isn't large, but the space feels especially tight as Papyrus insinuates his body between Sans's legs and looms over him, heavy and heated. His cock has been pulled free, and the hand that isn't pinning Sans's wrists reaches down to grip the tender organ by its base before gently rubbing the shaft over the grooves of the smaller skeleton's pubis.

“Haaaannnngh,” Sans splutters before gritting his teeth to dampen the noise. Papyrus admonishes him frequently about being too loud, but then also seems to delight in forcing Sans to make the most humiliatingly vocal sounds. The force of not just one orgasm but two has left him feeling painfully sensitive where his own cock had previously formed. Even the soft abrasion of magical flesh is excruciating.

But Papyrus's expression is magnificent. His eyelights have gone almost soft, hazing with his pleasure, and his teeth are parted, letting tight whines of urgency escape. Unlike Sans, Papyrus almost never makes a sound. He's too controlled, rarely allowing himself to come properly undone the way he so often encourages his brother to. Even now his thrusts are shallow and shaking with the effort of holding back rather than unleashing his full force on Sans's more delicate body. 

He watches his brother's face and with the next thrust allows his hips to roll against the press of Papyrus's motion, creating a sharp clash of friction that makes his brother gasp. Papyrus's movements stutter. His next thrust is beautifully rough and painful, making Sans's spine arch despite the aching twinges.

“That's right,” he murmurs encouragingly. “I'm not gonna break, bro. You can go harder. Come on, fuck me, I need it, I need _you_.”

If sweet compliments are Sans's favourite endearments, then desperate begging is definitely his brother's. Perhaps he needs the assurance that Sans really wanted this, no matter how perverse their relationship can sometimes be...or perhaps he just enjoys the ego-boost of hearing how shamelessly his brother will moan and beg for him. Sans might not enjoy doing it on the stage, but in private he'll say anything his brother needs to hear. 

It doesn't take much. Papyrus curls over further, crushing Sans's body beneath his own, his hips moving with animalistic determination and with a strangled moan that Sans knows he'll treasure in his memory for months to come, he feels the white-hot rush of ejaculate spilling out into his mid-section as his brother shudders through his climax. His hold on Sans's wrists finally loosens, and Sans takes the opportunity to curl his arms over his brother's shoulders, just holding him through the aftermath. His own body feels wretchedly sore, but he honestly couldn't give a damn. It's still far too rare that Papyrus will let him have this kind of closeness. Even behind closed doors, it's far too sentimental for his ferocious, uptight brother. 

The moment ends when Papyrus finally pulls away, a familiar expression of distaste on his face. “Eugh. Why did I let you convince me to do that on the couch?”

Sans blinks, looking down at the mess splattered across his spine which did nothing at all to protect the couch cushion beneath it, and just laughs. 

Papyrus looks even more unimpressed. “It's bad enough you take your naps here. This isn't what our couch is supposed to be used for!”

“S'pretty good for naps though,” Sans yawns, going limp again. “We should have one.”

“I'm not sleeping in this mess!” Papyrus screeches, and then perhaps realises he'd have more dignity doing so if his pants weren't still unfastened, revealing his bare pubis now that his cock has dissipated. He readjusts his clothing, ignoring the lop-sided smirk Sans is wearing. “And I hadn't finished cleaning you up.”

“I'm fine,” Sans grumbles, though to be honest he's still feeling kind of sticky, but it's a bearable kind of sticky. Unlike his brother, he's pretty content to sleep in mess if he has to.

Papyrus predictably ignores him, untangling himself from Sans's legs with exaggerated annoyance. He gathers up his bucket and washcloth, glaring down at the newest smears of residue before vengefully blotting them from the fabric of the couch cushion. Sans's spine gets only slightly gentler treatment, which he endures with a minimum of displeased huffing. 

“Are you, though?” Papyrus says at length, having waited so long that Sans can't immediately remember the context. Papyrus shoots him an almost irritated glare, but he can't seem to hold Sans's eye for longer than a moment. “Fine?”

“Uh...'course,” Sans says, feeling awkward, and not just because Papyrus is now staring down at his hips with the same intensity the cushion had received. “I mean, it was...”

His vocabulary fails him, but since Papyrus has also started in on cleaning away all the residue the tentacles have left through his pelvic inlet, he feels pretty justified in his silence. There's quite a thick layer filming both the inner and outer curves of his pelvis. He can see places where the tentacles have licked clear stripes across his bones, and the reminder sends a fresh flush of crimson to his own face. He holds his breath, trying not to make a sound as Papyrus delves down the curves of his sacrum.

“It was...?” his brother prompts, thankfully still not looking at him. He's frowning in concentration, looking absurdly serious about the task.

“Um...” How is he meant to think with Papyrus's fingers scuttling along his bones like that? It's not even intentionally erotic. Sans is just incredibly tender. “I-i-intense! It w-was. Intense. But it's fiiiii-ow ow ow!”

It's completely impossible to keep his voice steady or hide his wincing when Papyrus pressed against the underside of his pubic symphysis. He'd been able to ignore it when Papyrus had been rutting against him, but now the outside felt raw from the abrasion of their earlier activities and the inside ached from the eager squeeze of too many appendages trying to fit through his pelvis. 

“Urrgh. Just let me-!” He tries to swipe the cloth from Papyrus, only to find himself pushed back down with easy strength. 

“Stop squirming. I'll go carefully.”

He relents, mostly because there's no arguing with Papyrus even on the best of days, and also because he really doesn't want to be fumbling around in his pelvis whilst Papyrus glares at him. 

Sans holds his breath again, but Papyrus is much more careful this time. His claws are blunted behind the cloth, and his touch is light and completely controlled as he delicately sloughs away the drying remnants of his magic from Sans's body. Using the lightest possible pressure, it feels pretty damn good. The soft, repetitive motions relax him. Sans feels his eyelids go heavy again, and finds himself yawning widely. Papyrus makes another scoff of sound, but it's laced with fondness.

Tomorrow will be harder. In this moment he has the pleasant, post-orgasm daze to keep his thoughts numb and calm. He has his brother's diligently watchful presence to protect him, to take charge and make decisions so he can keep hold of the soothing emptiness and not remember too much of the crowd, the jeering, that damn camera in the bushes...

But he wants to remember this part. The way Papyrus lets his touch linger, now that they don't have anyone to hide from. The way he pores over Sans's body so meticulously, treating each imperfect, scarred plane of bone with an almost reverent attention. The way he scowls when Sans tries to tug him down for a nap, and though he stalwartly refuses to go anywhere near the new wet-patch on the cushions, he eventually relents by picking Sans up and folding the smaller skeleton across his lap, holding him close as they both doze peacefully into the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to read more of my works? Come visit me at [askellie.tumblr.com](http://askellie.tumblr.com/). I have a lot of juicy drabbles and unfinished ficlets that haven't yet made it to AO3. Also, I love comments and feedback, so if you feel so inclined, let me know what you think?
> 
> And as always, thank you to the wonderful oneType for letting me play with her idea. It was glorious, and I might not be completely finished with this particular 'verse just yet. (Grillby wants his private performance, after all. We shall see.)


End file.
